Dalliance
by TheOnlyQuirk
Summary: "You're living in a nightmare, you better get used to it." In a world without hope, Harry is gone and Voldemort reigns, separating muggleborns from purebloods. As a way to cease rebellion, the Hunger Games are introduced. As Hermione is thrown back into a world of fear and death, can her old enemy Draco Malfoy realise his mistakes and save her before it is too late? DM/HG
1. The Reaping

_**Author's Notes:**_ **Just a note to warn that yes, I do plan to finish this fic, but updates will not be frequent. I will update when I can, but you have to understand that if I don't like a chapter or don't feel in the right mood to write, then I will not do so. However, this will be a continuous story as it has been previously planned out and requested by someone else. Please review! Did you like it? Did you not? Was there some aspects you want me to change? Tell me! I can only make it better if you tell me! And if you don't think it can be made any beter (highly unlikely) Tell me so I feel encouraged to write another chapter and that people are actually reading it! Enjoy. ~TheOnlyQuirk**

_**1) The Reaping**_

Hermione sat up and rubbed her head gingerly, and then winced as streched her injured arm. Pain was nothing new to her however, and she changed quickly, ignoring the nip ofautumn air. She put on a grey wollen coat and some faded jeans before walking to the cracked mirror hung up on the badly plastered wall. Hermione sighed as she examined her red blotchy face, dried tears that were the answer to her salty taste in her mouth.

_Stupid nightmares._ Hermione reprimanded herself. _You're living in a nightmare, you better get used to it. _She sighed heavily once more as she spotted the purpling bruise that had blossomed over night on her left cheekbone. Vitreus didn't like her workers to look unkept, and that bruise was going to cost her at least a weeks pay.

It was the 2nd of October 1998, exactly 5 months since the battle of Hogwarts. But Hermione, tried not to dwell on that. False dreams. False hope.

She opened a few wooden cuboards and found the last of her fruit stock. A single apple. _Well, _Hermione thought, as she picked it up and rubbed the outside, _I can't let it rot. I've been hungrier._ Well, she thought she had. When camping with Harry and Ron, she thought things couldn't get any more depressing, what with lack of food and comfort. She wished she was there now.

When hope was still an option.

Hermione had slung her bag over her shoulder and had reached the front door when she remembered something.

_Of course. No work. It's the Reaping._

And she sat down on her bed.

Her house only consisted of 3 rooms. The main living space where she kept her bed, desk and a small space under the floorboards where she had managed to smuggle the only books she had left. Hogwarts a History, Transfiguartion spell book 5, and Quidditch through the ages. She had read the first two at least 50 times, so now she could practically quote Hogwarts a History off by heart, but the second book wasn't much use without a wand.

The third she hadn't touched.

The second room consisted on a small wooden table and one of the only magical objects in the house, a magic powered cooker. Starving workers are of no use, is what Vitreus always said. The third held a toilet, sink and shower, again powered by magic. Muggles are beneath them.

Muggle borns are scum.

All that time, searching for Horcruxes had been a waste. Hermione Jean Granger, also known as the brightest witch of her age, along with the boy who lived and The King, had sacrificed everything. Countless died, but Voldemort had been one step ahead of them the entire time.

Having finished her apple, Hermione led back on the bed, and for this one time only, let herself remember.

Destroying the horcruxes was not the answer to killing Voldemort. In fact, each one that was destroyed added to his power. The situation was so absurd, Hermione might have laughed if it wasn't a matter of life and death. Voldemort wanted the trio to find the horcruxes to create his new spell. And they had fallen right into his trap. The spell required certain valuble objects to be destroyed by the owners most hated enemy in order for a perfect replica to be made of Voldemort, before wiping out the wizard who destroyed the replica.

The one that Harry killed. A wash of red fire overcame the green eyed boy, and the next moment he was gone. Hermione didn't try and think about the spell. It hurt her head.

Pandonium followed soon after. Many more died. Ron, Molly, Arther, Nevile, Luna, Seamus…the list went on. Only a few were spared. Most of them were pure or half blood. Anyone who defied Voldemort was soon delt with. Muggleborns were killed unless they proved themselves.

…

"_Hermione Granger" The deatheater hissed,silver mask lost in the war. Hermione struggled, but the body bind curse could not be easily undone and only her eyes could move freely, darting around in a panic, taking in the ruined mess that was once her school, her freedom, her raised his wand._

"_Crucio!"_

_She fell to the stone floor in blinding pain, the body-bind curse now lifted as the agonising sensation of knives stabbing her,mixed with volts of electricity coursing through her body, overcame her senses and made it difficult to breath._

"_Muggleborn scum. Say goodbye to magic." The deatheater hissed. Maybe if she could think straight, she would be happy that she died in Hogwarts, or what was left of it. But all Hermione wanted was to make it stop._

_Make it stop._

_Just as she was certain the darkness would take her, something did make it stop. _

"_Wait." Said a cool voice that Hermione knew all too well and hated with every fibre of her swept over and glanced at Hermione who was still writhing on the floor but refused to cry out. He waved his wand and the pain stopped._

"_She is strong. She may be muggle born but she is certainly clever." He pondered the thought as if deciding on what to have for dinner._

"_She stays. She will work for me."he said, before turning with a flourish with his cloak. _

"_But master!" The deatheater cried out. "She'll do anything to stop you! Anything!" _

_Voldemort stopped midstride and gave the deatheater a piercing glare. "You dare defy me?" he said in a soft tone. The deaheater immediately turned white and gave a low bow._

"_No master. Of course not."_

_Hermione gave a low moan, and Voldemort smirked._

"_I don't think she's going to put up much of a fight. Do you?" And with that he walked away._

"_Never." Hermione said, and the pain started again._

…

Hermione had never agreed to submission. It had been a whole week of torture, but Voldemort gave up for the time being and now she was a simple muggleborn worker, just like the rest. She remembered what he had said.

'_She is bright. She will come to realise there is no other option. I am her only chance.'_

5 months later and Hermione was still working. Refusing to cooperate. Voldemort was right.

She was strong. She was stubborn.

That didn't stop her being abused. She received punishments wherever she went. Fileing, manual labour, cauldren cleaning, or even to just bully, you name it, muggleborns were there to be used.

The world was a dark place. Blood status was the highest priority, and magic folk were seperated for it. Not killed, Voldemort wasn't that stupid to let magic die out all together, but _controlled_ as he put it.

But like before, uprisings occurred. Bands of witches and wizards who opposed his declarations vandalised streets, created riots,and even went up against deatheaters themselves. Something had to be done. In the midst of all this, Voldemort had dissapeared for two days. No-one had seen from him, heard from him, not even his most loyal companions. But he eventually returned,as he always does, and this time with The Hunger Games.

A way for people to learn their place, so it was said. The rules were simple. A male and a female tribute were picked from each blood status group, aged 12-19. 2 Tributes from pure-blood. 4 tributes from half-bloods. 4 Tributes from blood-traitors, and 6 Tributes from muggleborns. A fight to the death in a specially created arena. What's worse was the fact they were supposed to celebrate it, to prove their alligence to Lord Voldemort. The pure-bloods practiacally ravished in it, holding parties, celebrations and taking bettings on which tribute will be the last standing. It had happened twice before, with all wizards and witches being forced to watch as their children were killed before their eyes. Hermione hated the games almost as much as she hated Voldemort, and still had nightmares about her friend Annie, who had died just last month in a tropical arena. One game for each month, until next year where they would occur just twice a year.

3 to go.

Stopping herself from wallowing in remorse, Hermine sat up and washed her face before exiting her house and headed for the square. She lived in a small muggle-born villiage called Howsingtine, and already she could see rows of nervous children, lining up stoney faced. She felt grateful they had only introduced it when she was 17, and felt sorrow as she passed a twin brother and sister at the age of 12 hugging eachother tightly.

Hermione took her placed in the rows of teenagers and watched as Vitreus walked onto the stage, wearing her usual long black robes. No speech was needed, no waffle before the Reaping. Everyone had been panicking about this day for a whole month, and here it was.

Vitreus walked over to a large black box which was centered at the front of the stage and placed her thumb on the side as DNA recognition. Flames rose up, licking every inch of the box, before spitting sparks of gold and blue into the air which formed letters. Forming names. The first three were boys.

_Colin James._

A small sandy haired 14 year old walked onto the stage sniffling. He reminded Hermione of Colin Creevy in 2nd year.

_Flyn Amos._

A well-built 16 year old walked up, showing no sign of emotion. His hair was a dark chocolate brown and had piercing blue eyes.

_Luke Middleton._

Another 16 year old. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as none of her close friends were picked. Yet, she still couldn't prevent the wave of pity for the 3 boys that already held their death sentence. As the sparks entered the air for a second time, Hermione quickly ran through her next shopping list in her mind, which was what she usually did to distract herself.

_Carrots, yes, I will need some of those, only have one left but they keep a lot better than other vegatables…_

Hermione's eyes flickered up to the sparks briefly, holding her breath.

_Grace Twine._

Another wash of relief and she went back to her list

_I'm not sure I have enough pay for cheese, but I havn't had a block for a few weeks now and the bread has gone awfully dry…_

Another peak,

_Sarah Price._

Hermione stared at her brown shoes and continued, feeling happier by the second.

_But more apples I shall HAVE to get…hmm, maybe Ginny could send some over? That is if the death eaters don't inspect all the packages again…_

Her train of thought was interrupted as she felt hundreds of eyes train on her. A small boy nudged her in the ribs and she looked up surprised.

Then as she looked forwards her body went rigid, and the shopping list dissolved along with any other thoughts. Her chest tightened and the steps she was forced to take were slow and uneven. Her breath hitched in her throat and her eyes pricked with tears but she forced herself to not let them pass her tear ducts.

_Why? Why? Of all the things that have happened, out of everybody here, hundreds, thousands…why?_

She took her place on stage, walking past the last of the sparks which had formed the words,

_Hermione Granger. _

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	2. A Certain Slytherin

_**Authors Note: **_**Chapter 2! Slightly more descriptive and less eventful, but sometimes I feel other authors rush into action too much. I don't own any of J.K's original characters or any of the Hunger Games, as much as I would like to. Please review; it makes my day. If you want to talk to me about something else or in private, feel free to PM me. Enjoy! **

**Chapter 2 ~ A Certain Slytherin**

All the tributes were ushered into a damp grey building that stood three times as tall as any other houses in Howsingtine, and had a slight tilt to it which always made Hermione wary that it could come toppling any second. It was only used for when important Death eaters came to visit, or other ministry business. The ministry was run by Voldemort himself; although he would employ his servants to do all the actual office work. Everyone knew it was him behind every decree, every decision, corrupting anything that entered its walls. His rules and enforcements made Professor Umbridge look like one of her fluffy kittens that hung on her putrid pink walls.

Hermione shivered as they filed into the building, trying to push other grim memories from resurfacing. This was also the place where Voldemort tried to…_persuade _Hermione to change her mind, and it hadn't been pretty.

"Hurry up." Snarled a voice, and a hooded figure poked Hermione in the back with his wand. The other tributes had already lined up in the foyer, and Hermione who was wrapped up in the terror of the past and the present, was still lingering at the entrance. She scurried forward and took her place in line next to a girl she remembered as Sarah, the girl's chin jutting out defiantly.

The large foyer used to look grand, but age had stripped its beauty away, leaving large patches of damp in the wall and once gold leafed archways were now peeling away. The floor was made up of hard flagstones that echoed when Vitreus' short heels clipped against the surface, and the once royal red curtains were eaten away by moths and covered in a thick film of dust. The room was rectangular in shape and in front of Hermione and the others were a set of shallow steps that led up to a set of doors. Hermione knew what lay behind them; room after room as you carried on up the spiralling staircase that always felt too precarious to stand on. Of course, the other tributes didn't know that. They had never been here before and had hoped they never would be.

Hermione was at a loss at how to feel. At first it was sorrow; hot tears pricking at her eyes, but now that the situation had sunk in it was kind of numbing. Her movements were mechanic, on auto pilot, following the instructions that she had never wished to hear.

Life was unfair, and Hermione decided to accept that.

Vitreus stood at the top of the steps, her black hood now down, showing her sharply cut bob of black hair and her sallow skin that looked like it hadn't seen the sun in weeks. In the back of her mind, Hermione thought she could pass as a female version of Professor Snape, except with a smaller nose.

Poor professor Snape. Dying for a loss cause.

"In a few moments, the Port key will take you to your destination in order for you to meet your stylists and the other tributes." She said stiffly.

Each Hunger Games was hosted in a different place where the tributes stayed for one week before the games. Usually at a high ranked Death Eaters mansion or equally grand place. During that week stylists dressed you up, trying to encourage the rich purebloods to sponsor you. Unfortunately, if you were a traitor or muggleborn, stylists were sometimes wicked creatures who only tried to humiliate you more. Hermione hoped she wouldn't get one of them.

"Wait at your destination for your stylist to find you and follow all orders. Everyone take a hold." She gestured to a broom, and Hermione had to supress a hysterical giggle at the irony of them traveling by port key on a broomstick. According to muggle fairy tale, witches were supposed to travel from one destination to another by these. It still happened today, but only by death eaters and the broom business was on high security at all times.

She gingerly held onto one end of the broom and didn't glance up as another hooded figure took his place next to her whilst also grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back of her robes.

Someone had to stop her letting go before they got there.

Before they left she glanced at the other tributes who were also accompanied by hooded death eaters. A small willowy girl with mousy hair, Grace, was trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her heart-shaped face. She couldn't be any older than 13. The small boy who reminded her of Colin Creevy was also shaking but was trying to put an intimidating face on, which only gave the impression her had just eaten a sour lemon. She had never seen Flyn before, but his face was impassive, as was Luke's, the carpenter's son, however, his fright was betrayed by his eyes which darted frantically around the room.

With a sickening lurch, the decaying foyer disappeared in a blur of colour, and all she could see was the fluttering black cloth of numerous death eaters' robes which whipped around in the wind of traveling. Seconds later they landed on a hard marble floor with a thump and Hermione tried to supress a groan as her elbow jarred against the hard surface. She stood up and looked around, before she gasped and clutched her stomach.

The memories made her feel sick; her head was spinning.

_What sick minded being chose this place? Of all places? This was planned, this is just because I'm here…I can't stay here! I can't… _

Hermione stared in revulsion at Malfoy Manor.

The planning of Voldemort most likely.

Quickly, she shut her eyes and counted to ten, trying to slow down her rapid breathing.

_I can do this, Bellatrix is dead, and I have nothing to worry about except getting killed by a bunch of ruthless teenagers…_

She opened her eyes, deciding that it wasn't helping. Instead she stood on her tiptoes and scanned the bustling crowd to get a look at the other tributes. She instantly spotted Pansy, the female tribute for Purebloods no doubt, ordering staff around in a loud voice as if she owned the place. She hadn't changed much it seems; Hermione remembered her deafening voice when anyone got in her way at Hogwarts. She caught glimpse of other random teenagers who she hadn't seen before including a lanky blonde girl and a boy she recognised from Slytherin in her year, but his name now forgotten. As she turned around she gasped and put her hand up to her mouth in disbelief as she watched a well know red-head walk towards her new stylist.

_Ginny…._

She breathed to herself, thinking it couldn't get any worse. Ginny was under the class of blood traitors and was now part of the Hunger Games themselves. She watched helplessly as she was taken away to one of the many side rooms and the door locked behind her. Ginny's story wasn't too different from Hermione's in the fact that it was her skill with a wand that saved her life. She worked as a maid for a half-blood family further north, and sometimes was able to send Hermione letters which she hid under the floor with her books.

A large hand clasped her shoulder and she turned around with a jump to see the brash Cormac McLaggen grinning at her.

"Long time no see Hermione." He said winking. She felt anger boil up inside her at the coward he is. She was there when she watched the former Quidditch player beg for mercy at the feet of the Dark Lord, grovelling for life. Pathetic. As a half-blood, he was spared. Just.

"Looks like both of us are in it together eh? How unfortunate. Of course, I volunteered." He said arrogantly. Winning the games was a chance at glory, and she could see why he would want to be the victor.

"Leave me alone you coward." She spat at him and turned away so he stood behind her.

"Don't be like that baby…" he said leaning forward into her ear as he started to snake one arm round her waist. Suddenly, Hermione spun and punched McLaggen in the jaw where he stumbled backwards, but not quite falling over.

"Never call me that again."

The crowd went quiet and Cormac cursed under his breath before glaring at Hermione and disappearing into the throng of people. The chatter slowly increased in volume, a few wary looks being shot in the Gryffindor's direction, but no death eaters came to punish her.

It had been a few minutes and slowly, the tributes began to trickle out, leaving Hermione to crane her neck and try and see a stylist without a tribute. As she was looking, she froze as she caught sight of a head of white-blonde hair she had only ever seen once before in her life.

_Of course, the male tribute for purebloods._

Draco Malfoy was leaning against a marble pillar, arms folded and dressed in a stylish set of dark emerald robes. His hair was the same as it had been at Hogwarts, yet instead of it being slicked back with a gallon of hair gel, it was slightly longer and looked ruffled, no hair gel in sight. She couldn't but help notice his growth in height and his almost effortless good looks. His trademark smirk, however, had not changed from first year and his grey eyes were scanning the room lazily. Despite his carefree look, Hermione could see that he was stiffer than other tributes, slightly tense as if waiting for something to happen.

Hermione jumped slightly as his eyes met hers and the smirk disappeared, leaving his face blank. She couldn't tell how he felt or what he was doing but his gaze was locked on hers until a nasally voice caught her attention.

"Hermione Granger, Muggle-born."

Behind her stood a tall woman with ginger curls piled on top of her head. She was slightly chubby and wore ghastly orange robes that were far brighter than any other stylists here. In one hand she held a clip-board and in the other a stubby wand that she used to poke Hermione towards another side room as if she was something unpleasant the dog left on the carpet. Not for the first time that day, Hermione thought about the bruise that was going to form as a result from all this wand poking. As she was being pushed towards the room, she turned around to catch the last glimpse of the former Slytherin.

Draco Malfoy was still staring at her.

**Please Review!**


	3. Humiliation

_**Authors Note: **__**Please let me know what you think of it by reviewing, bonus points for anyone who knows why the stylist if named 'Fulgor' and what language it is in ;) Enjoy! **_

_**3) Humiliation **_

There was a large open space 'backstage' as Hermione had dubbed it, where all the tributes were waiting anxiously for the parade to begin. The parade was a chance for the potential sponsors to get their first look at the teenagers who would be competing that month. The teenagers milled around, some chatting, some silent and some still having tweaks done to their outfit as the odd stylist bustled around waving their wands dramatically to add some more glitter or lengthen the hem. Hermione was stood in the furthest corner away from everybody as possible, trying her hardest not to break down. It was a good thing her stylist wasn't making extra tweaks to her outfit otherwise Hermione would have snapped and probably resorted to physical combat. And with every adult wizard and witch carrying a wand, the fight would not have lasted long. Instead, the Gryffindor was thinking of as many different insults and hexes as possible she would have liked to hit her stylist, Fulgor, in several different languages to help her calm down. It didn't help that when other tributes passed they either looked at her in pity or burst into spiteful peals of laughter as Pansy had done as she strutted past in a revealing baby pink dress, which did nothing to help with her slightly podgy figure.

Fulgor had decided to take Hermione's school title 'The brightest witch of her age' as inspiration and turned her into a light bulb. When Fulgor had told her this idea, in the small dark side room, Hermione shrugged in response, thinking that it could be worse, as such was the case with Melanie Heart when she was forced to parade in nothing but mud. However, the end result did nothing but mock her.

Her stiff dress was cone shaped and covered in a flimsy tinfoil surface, which reached just down to her knees. Her legs were completely bare but her feet were forced into wearing an ugly pair of brown shoes with clunky buckles and mismatched stockings. She had to carry a worn brown book bag; similar to the one she carried round Hogwarts, no doubt to mock her further. A whole thirty minutes had been dedicated to making Hermione's hair as bushy and wild as possible, which involved Fulgor tugging mercilessly through her hair with a matted brush, accompanied with a sticking charm to make it stay in place. The worst thing in Hermione's opinion was the bulbous globe of a hat made out of something that looked like glass but in reality was much lighter. It looked simply like a fish bowl turned upside-down on her head. It sat right on top of her mess of curls and flashed on and off like a dying light bulb. To finish it all off, a simple cardboard sign hung around her neck like a slave in a trade market which said:

'Britest Wich of my Agee'

Spelt wrong.

The lanky blonde girl she spotted earlier stalked past in an emerald flowing gown with daisies woven into her hair which cascaded down her back in waves. She spotted Hermione looking miserable in the corner and smirked before flouncing off. Pretending that she didn't care, she raised her chin and looked in the other direction, when she felt a pair of eyes on her.

Scanning the crowd slowly, she easily spotted Draco Malfoy, staring straight at her for the second time that day. This unnerved Hermione and she fidgeted, looking down at the floor and then back up again. He was still staring. This time, she stared defiantly back just waiting for him to saunter over in his black velvet dress robes and insult her like he did throughout her school years.

But he didn't.

Instead he just stared at her looking…confused. There was no amusement in his face, and not surprisingly, no pity. What puzzled Hermione was the obvious conflict that he showed as if he was fighting an inward battle.

"Hermione!"

Her train of thought and view of Malfoy was obscured as a mass of grey fabric and red hair were flung on top of her.

"Ginny…?"

The youngest of the Weasleys let go of Hermione and her hazel eyes shone with concern.

"Hermione! I can't believe you were picked! It's been rigged I'm telling you! Just because Voldemort hates our guts and we won't bow down and kiss his sorry-"

"Ginny." Hermione breathed, stopping Ginny's rage mid-flow. "It doesn't matter if it was rigged. How are we going to prove that? And even if we could, would they really care?"

Ginny sighed. "I know. Sorry, it's just unfair."

"I know." Hermione said and hugged her best friend. It had been ages since they last saw each other and now Ginny was marginally taller, having inherited the genes that all of her brothers previously had. Ginny and Charlie Weasley were the last ones left, Charlie being spared because of his training with Dragons.

"Hermione? What are you wearing?"

Granger sighed and didn't say anything but showed her the cardboard sign, hung by a piece of string.

"Ouch." Replied the red head. Hermione just shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything about her stylist of costume in case 1) they were overheard, and 2) she started to cry. Hermione had made a promise to herself at the start of when the games were introduced.

They wouldn't see her cry.

Instead, she diverted the conversation.

"Speaking of clothes, what are _you_ wearing Gin?"

Ginny smiled sheepishly. It looked like she was wearing a pillowcase and reminded Hermione of a house elf. The memories of S.P.E.W flashed in her mind and she smiled slightly, remembering the mountains of woollen hats she knitted for them. The sack was a dark grey and ended just above Ginny's knees revealing her long slender legs and bare feet. On her slender arms she wore silver bangles that clicked together when she moved and smoky makeup was smeared round her eyes, making them stand out. Her hair was a mess, but unlike Hermione's her dead straight hair didn't stick out quite so much and only gave the impression that she had gotten out of bed.

"Well these are my manacles." She said waving her wrists, letting the bangles click against each other.

"I think I was supposed to represent a prisoner for the whole 'blood traitor' thing, but honestly everything is meant to _mean _something and it's so darn complicated that I don't think the crowd will actually notice."

"You'll be fine." Hermione said and then remembered what she was wearing and bit her lip in worry. Ginny noticed and rubbed her arm soothingly.

"Come on 'Mione, you're as tough as rock. Surely a beauty competition isn't going to get you down?" she said with a wink. Hermione felt reassured.

_Don't be so petty, and get a grip. _She told herself. _Ginny's right, it's what happens in the games that counts, not a popularity contest. _

But there was always the thought of sponsors nagging in the back of her brain.

Just as she was managing to calm down, a voice boomed around the room.

"Line up all tributes, Purebloods first, then half-bloods, then traitors, then the Mudbloods."

Hermione barely flinched at the offensive term as it was so over used nowadays; it had lost its impact. Nevertheless, her stomach filled with butterflies at the thought of what was to come. Ginny gave her a last sympathetic smile and took her place in the line. She also ignored the staring from Malfoy that set her even further on edge if that was even possible.

_Seriously, what is wrong with him?_

She stood behind Grace who was lucky with her stylist as she stood in a wispy yellow dress that seemed to leave small trails of yellow smoke wherever she moved.

Suddenly, the doors up ahead opened and a stream of light spread over them making Hermione wince. The tributes started to file out and the Gryffindor could hear the roar of the crowd, her previous determination now gone. As she stepped into the light, she felt the sharp chill of October air wash over her bare skin, making her hairs stand on end. As her eyes adjusted she could see that they were in the vast grounds of Malfoy Manor, stands of people gathered on either side. The tributes didn't have to walk very far, in fact, it was simply a large circle where they strutted around in front of the people who held the power that might just save…or end your life in the arena. Any displays of talent were a bonus, but since Hermione lacked a wand she doubted 'finding a book the quickest in the library' would class as a talent. She took her first few steps on the grass.

_Well this isn't too bad…_

Just then a loud burst of laughter erupted from a fat looking witch seated close to where Hermione was walking. Then another bout of laughter further down. Then another. And another. Soon all other tributes were forgotten as the entire crowd were in hysterics at the sight of Hermione's costume. She could see Fulgor in the stands bowing and her hands started to shake. She kept on walking, staring down at her brown shoes, biting her lip so hard she could sense the metallic taste of her own blood. Her whole body was shaking with anger and mortification, and was trying hard to contain herself.

_I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry._

The laughing from the crowd didn't die, but continued as she got halfway round the circle. In her blurred vision she saw Cormac trying a few stunts in the centre of the circle to capture the audience's attention, but it was no use.

_I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not-_

She gasped as she bumped into someone else and looked up quickly. It was Draco Malfoy. His grey eyes bore into hers with a sense of urgency for just a second before they relaxed and a smirk crept onto his face.

"Why hello there Princess." He drawled and then bowed at her feet. Hermione flushed. How _dare_ he try and humiliate her further? After everything she's been through, this wasn't enough? Apparently not as he took her arm in his and started to lead her round the circle. He took hold of her book bag and tossed it over his shoulder as well as knocking off her flashing hat with a swift move of his arm and ruffled his hand in her already messed up hair before giving her a wink.

"That's better."

The crowd loved the interesting twist of the highly ranked Pureblood, Draco Malfoy, playing around with one of the former members of the 'Golden Trio', and clapped and cheered as he continued to wave whilst practically dragging Hermione with him.

"What are you doing?!" she hissed into his ear. Time was nearly up and Hermione could see the other tributes getting annoyed as their limelight was stolen right beneath their noses. The doors reopened and some annoyed and other relieved tributes filed back in. Draco gave a charming grin to the crowd before bowing deeply again to Hermione. She stood awkwardly trying not to blush or cry or scream or do anything else that would make her look even worse that she did now. As she started to walk towards the doors, Malfoy grabbed her bare legs and swung her easily over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing more than a sack full of feathers, her tinfoil dress crackling around her.

"MALFOY!" She screeched before she could help herself, trying to cover any of her thighs that might be showing. But the Slytherin just smiled and sauntered to the doors, with Hermione on his shoulders, the applauding crowd on its feet enjoying the entertainment.

The large doors closed behind them muffling the noise and darkening the room once more. Hermione was set carefully on her feet and Malfoy turned around and walked away quickly before she could even say a single word.

The room was filled with a quiet muttering and angry glares were being shot her way. She caught sight of Ginny who smiled before she was whisked away. Hermione shook her head.

That was confusing.

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	4. Father and Son

_**4) Father and Son**_

"What do you think you are doing?!"

Draco had been walking quickly back to his room in case Granger decided to follow him and bombard him with questions that would have been difficult to answer. Some of them, even he didn't know the answer to. The roar of the crowd was still buzzing in his ears and he might have missed the message that was hissed violently towards him if it hadn't been for the accompaniment of being dragged into an unused parlour by the back of his robes. The door clicked shut and Draco turned around to face his father.

Lucius Malfoy had always been an intimidating being, and even more so when he had recently gained favour in the eyes of Lord Voldemort, taking Severus' old place as his right hand man. Draco may have been tall, but Lucius was even taller, his long black robes accentuating his height. His blonde hair was a few shades lighter than Draco's and fell in a curtain down his back, and his black boots had a slight heel making his presence noted whenever he entered a room. He held his cane in front of him, coated in shiny black lacquer. A silver snake's head with emerald eyes was placed grandly on top of the stick, and home to Lucius' wand, where he would whip it out viscously if needed. His face was currently twisted into a scowl that he directed towards his son, who sighed and sat down on one of the viridian leather sofas.

"Good afternoon Father."

Lucius scowled again and took a few brief steps in order to face Draco, his cloak whipping behind him. Despite his irate demeanour, he spoke calmly as he addressed Draco for the second time.

"Out there, during the parade. What do you think you are doing?"

"Making a show." Replied Draco.

"With the Mudblood?!" Lucius' cool exterior slightly slipping. Draco flinched ever so slightly at the use of the offensive term but hid it well under his usual mask that he wore every day. There was a consequence to every slip-up, and Hermione wasn't the only one who feared the corollary chosen for them.

Draco Malfoy had not volunteered for the games unlike Cormac, as he personally did not see the supposed glory in slaughtering other witches and wizards, many of them previously known at Hogwarts. Two months ago, Lucius had tried to force him to volunteer, but Narcissa had forbidden it and Lucius eventually had to give up. Draco didn't say anything but he was thankful towards his mother, who was his only excuse for the first 'coward' comments received that month. Instead, his father was forced to hope that Draco's name was called, in order to regain some Malfoy pride that had been lost during the war. Lord Voldemort had not failed to notice the boy's reluctance in participating with the round up muggle-borns as well as his failure with his first task as a death eater. He had been punished accordingly and now went along with everything that was asked of him.

Draco lent forwards, resting his arms on his knees and looked at his father.

"You were the one who told me to make an impression. I made one."

"What happens now could get you killed. What happens now affects our image…"

Draco laughed and lent backwards, arms crossing over his chest.

"_Our_ image? No father, you mean _your_ image. All you care about is how this will affect the family name, no bother if your son casually _dies_ along the way…"

"Enough!" Lucius said sharply, and Draco fell silent, staring at his hands.

"I will not have you answering in such an insolent manner, have I taught you nothing?!"

He sat down in an ebony armchair and gave a mental sigh. He had always thought that Narcissa had been too soft on him, and this was proof that he had been right. Cissy had kept him away, not wanting him to join in on 'dark practises' that the other children had been doing before Hogwarts, and refused to let him listen into any conversations later on through the years. It had made him soft, changing his opinions that had been drummed into other young boys correctly, such as Blaise Zambini, a well commended half-blood family, the boy also having volunteered for this month's games.

"Father." Draco said, a slight plea in his voice, which was a change from the usual confidant manner.

"Give me a chance. The Mudblood is famous in the wizarding world, even now. What will everybody say when Draco Malfoy starts taking interest in _Hermione Granger?" _Her name felt odd on his lips, but he brushed it off and continued.

"You told me to grab their attention. I'm grabbing it. Have faith father."

Lucius narrowed his eyes and surveyed his son.

"What do you intend to do with this girl? I will not have you shaming the family."

Draco smirked, putting on a cocky arrogant expression.

"Shocking things have to happen father, in order to get attention. And anyway, will it matter when she is dead and I am announced the winner?" He had his hands behind his head now, relaxing on the sofa. Lucius stood up abruptly and gave Draco a final stare.

"You are not the winner yet son, but I intend you to be so."

And with that he swept from the room, the end of his cloak narrowly avoiding getting caught in the door as it clicked shut once more. Draco's arrogant expression fell from his face. Now he was even more confused. What _was _he doing in the parade today? It wasn't planned that's for sure.

After the war, his mother had been planning to take him home but Lucius insisted on him helping with the aftermath. Draco avoided dealing with people from school as much as possible, but there was that one person he could never forget.

…..

_Draco was walking around the perimeter of the Great Hall, it's once tall walls now reduced to pile of brick and dust. He found himself at the head table, surprisingly one of the only things still standing and ran his finger along the top, gathering soot and ash. _ _Another body lay at his feet, one of the Order by the looks of it. He nudged the body with his foot but it didn't move. Dead for sure. He stepped over, not wanting to know who it was, when a shrill scream made him look up sharply. The scream echoed again, and he found the source of it quickly as only a few death eaters were scanning this room as most were outside. It was a female girl with brown curly hair, sprawled on the floor in front of Amycus Carrow, writhing in obvious pain._

_Granger._

_She screamed even louder and Draco had to resist the urge to cover his ears or bolt to the doors. It brought back memories when Bellatrix tortured her for information back at Malfoy Manor not too long ago. When Draco Malfoy had watched and had not done a thing._

_He watched Lord Voldemort glide into the hall, a faintly amused expression on his face. Draco could not hear the conversation that took place, but breathed a sigh of relief as he exited without killing her. Her knew the process and if Voldemort wanted her dead, then she would be long gone by now. He wasn't too sure why he was relived either. Guilt, probably. The screaming started up again, accompanied with insults that she hurled violently at Amycus despite the curse being used against her. As quickly as he could without raising attention, he left the remains of the Great Hall._

…

For the past few months he had lived life as everyone had expected him to. A fully fledged Death Eater, doing the Dark Lord proud. Draco mentally slapped himself as he felt the common feeling of revulsion at the thought of what he had been doing.

What he was going to do.

_I am supposed to embrace this life. It's what Father wanted. _He thought. Draco struggled as his emotions and thoughts waged war inside him, but being the person he was, he stood up and left the room silently, ignoring all thoughts of common sense, even though he knew this couldn't end well.

_**AN: **__**I'm realllly sorry this chapter is so much shorter, but I didn't want to split up the next chapter, and I felt this was a good ending. Anyone know what Draco is up to? Is he still in character? Let me know! Please review, I appreciate every single one! ~TheOnlyQuirk**_


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